


Scent Of The Pine

by gelishan



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Case Fic, M/M, but only kind of, more political intrigue than case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelishan/pseuds/gelishan
Summary: Matt wasn’t sure what form he would have expected a dryad to take.   A beautiful young woman, maybe, or a kind grandmother.  Not a man his age with a broad, friendly posture.The heat outline of the hand, fully complete now, lengthened and stretched.  “Name’s Foggy.”  It was an effort to shake his hand, Matt realized.  He was dealing with apolitetree spirit.A Cinderella AU with demons, dryads, and Victorian era international politics.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41
Collections: DDE’s 2021 New Year’s Day Exchange





	Scent Of The Pine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GealachGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GealachGirl/gifts).



> For the prompts:
> 
>  _Feelin’ Good by Nina Simone_  
>  and  
>  _Knowing how to achieve your dreams… now you just need a plan_  
>  and  
>  _satisfaction._
> 
> Thanks to 94bottlesofsnapple and pogopop for the extraordinarily helpful beta!
> 
> Also, I… I don’t know. I wanted to write a tooth-rottingly fluffy fairytale AU and then suddenly Victorian era politics happened. I hope those two things made friends well enough, and that you enjoy whatever this is.

It faded into existence gradually. One moment Matt was rubbing a dust mote out of his stinging eye, and the next a spot on the pine tree was shifting and molding into warm, human lines.

“How can I help you?” the heat-outlined face said. Its voice was quiet, gentle; so quiet, in fact, that no one else would have heard it. As if it were expecting him specifically. Maybe it was. Stick had told him enough stories.

“You’re not a demon, are you?” he said cautiously. He _hated_ not being able to sniff out demons. “I don’t have anything I’m willing to trade away.”

“Nope,” the tree said cheerily. The warm outline of a hand began to fade in next to the face. “Just your standard tree spirit. No bargains necessary. Just here to help.” 

He was lucky, then. Of all the creatures he could have summoned, this was by _far_ the most benign.

Matt wasn’t sure what form he would have expected a dryad to take. A beautiful young woman, maybe, or a kind grandmother. Not a man his age with a broad, amiable posture. Matt had a strange urge to touch the outline, to see if the soft heat impressions matched up with the reality.

He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. Benign or no, magical creatures were dangerous.

The outline of the hand, fully complete now, lengthened and stretched. “Name’s Foggy.” It was an effort to _shake his hand_ , Matt realized. He was dealing with a _polite_ tree spirit. 

“Matt,” he said, with an automatic smile. What, exactly, was he supposed to do here? The outline was still part of the tree. He settled for grazing it with his fingertips (it did feel warm, and friendly, somehow), and the tree made a contented sound. “You have an unusual name.”

“Rude, coming from a man whose initials are ‘mmm.’ Really want people to think you’re delicious, huh?”

He drew his hand back. Was the tree _flirting_ with him? A discomfiting thought, considering how powerful it was. “I didn’t mean to be rude--”

The outline blinked in and out of existence. “I’m messing with you, dude, it’s fine. I got to pick the name, and I like fog. Makes me feel like I’m living in a cloud.”

Matt liked it too-- the cool and crisp moisture in the air, the cover it provided. The smugness of knowing no one sighted could navigate it as well as he could. 

“Anyway.” If Foggy had a toe, Matt was pretty sure he would scuff it. “What do you need?” 

He knew what Stick would have said, knew it well enough to recite it by heart. _A warrior wants nothing to do with magic, kid. Magic is death. Humanity’s got soft and weak ever since they started leaning on it._

But Stick had told him to get to the ball tonight, unnoticed, and he hadn’t been able to find anyone to make or lend him a costume. And this tree really didn’t seem like the kind of spirit Stick had warned him about. Stick didn’t need to know about this.

He coughed, trying to remember the right formula. “Right. I wish to go to the festival. And the ball.”

The outline blinked again. “Uh, why? Doesn’t really seem like your scene, what with the crowds and the loud music and the senses.”

Senses. So it was true: the tree spirit _was_ expecting him. “You know about them? How--”

“I’m a magical forest being.” Foggy’s shoulders shimmered. “My whole thing is granting wishes to anyone worthy slash upset enough to weep under a tree. Can’t decide who’s worthy without information.”

It was maybe half of an explanation. “I wasn’t _weeping_.”

“Technically you were, buddy,” the tree said, sounding amused. “You were distressed. A tear was shed.” Good information to have. Technicalities were good enough for forest magic, and he wished, not for the first time, that Stick had told him more about magic's mechanics, not just what to avoid. “Really, though,” Foggy said. “Why a festival?”

Matt sighed. “If I tell you, will you help me?”

“Now who’s trying to bargain?” But there was still a smile in the tree’s voice. “Deal.”

“Someone’s trying to depose the princess. I need to stop it.”

“Stop it how?” Foggy’s face and hand blurred closer together.

Matt hesitated. He was pretty sure he shouldn’t be mentioning his night job, but Foggy already seemed to know everything about him. “I’m not sure yet,” he said. “But I have a friend, a physician, who got recruited for the effort. She knows I have a good track record, uh, tracing these things to their source and bringing them to the attention of the royal guard.” Usually in gift-wrapped form, left tied up by the carriage porch.

And he could admit it: he also looked forward to the swell of anonymity. With everyone wearing elaborate masks and costumes, no one would recognize him, and he’d have just one day when he didn’t have to pretend to be the helpless blind cobbler.

“Why would you want to help a noble?” Foggy had his chin in his hand now. 

“This friend… she’s good, and kind, and she says the princess does what she can within a broken system.” He’d overheard it himself, crouched on the parapets above the throne room. Her careful insinuations that one of the dukes had been siphoning money from the orphanage on his duchy. The way she convinced the King he’d come up with the idea of offering their servants legal protection against visiting nobility. “The world would be far worse if she died.”

“You like her!” The tree sounded pleased. “Like her like her?”

Not really. They’d tried it, once, but they’d been better off as friends. “That was a guess,” he said. “Why are you guessing, if you know so much about me?”

“Ooh, a clever one! I knew I liked you.” Matt felt a little tongue-tied at the warmth of his smile. “We tree spirits only know what’s necessary to judge people or grant wishes. Everything else I’ve got to ask about or guess.” 

So Foggy might not have known about his night job after all. Then again, he probably would have. Matt’s work for The Chaste deserves judgment.

“So you need a fancy costume, right?” Foggy said. “That’s what you wish for?”

“Yes. It’s a masquerade ball,” he said. “Open to all, technically, so long as we gift the Princess a sentimental token for each night we attend. But I can’t afford the rich silks or skilled tailors I’d need to enter unnoticed.” 

“Okay, buddy. But, pardon the joke, no way in hell am I going with the one you thought of earlier.”

He tilted his head. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The horns are _ridiculous._ And if you’re looking to comfort a princess, ‘literal spawn of hell’ isn’t exactly the way to earn her trust.”

“Fine,” he said, folding his arms. “Just… keep it simple.”

“I gotcha.”

* * *

It was simple, simpler than he’d anticipated. Trousers, a tunic, a long strip of loose fabric. He ran his fingers over the collection.

Nothing scratched at his skin. All the wools were soft and luxurious, the silks impossibly tightly woven, and the fabric band was a smooth, soft material he’d never felt before. Even more startling, he couldn’t smell the pile of fabric at all. No pungent scent of dyes; no dirt or sweat or animal smells.

“All of it’s black, too.” Foggy said. “Simple. Unmemorable. Discreet. Odor-proof. Thought you’d appreciate that. And it won’t disappear at midnight, either,” Foggy said. “It’s yours to keep for as long as you’d like. Let me know if you need shoes, too, but I figured a cobbler would have his own opinions about those."

"You're not wrong." It was the most generous gift Matt had ever received, and weirdly touching. Foggy had put so much care into the gift. “Thank you, Foggy,” he said again.

“My pleasure,” the tree beamed. Feet began to fade in beneath his face. “Do me a favor and try them on, buddy. If they need adjusting, better to know sooner than later.” He flared. “Promise I won’t look.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Matt said. “Sure, Foggy.”

Once he’d gotten everything on, he flexed, experimentally. Rotated his arms, kicked. Once again, Foggy had outdone himself: the costume had exquisite range of motion, better than even his clothing for his night job. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“It’s a good look on you, buddy,” he said. 

“Thanks.”

Foggy scuffed his feet awkwardly. “From everything I’ve read about you, I’m proud you chose my tree,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone who works harder to help others. Thank you for letting me help you do that.”

“Thank you for your help,” Matt said. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

The outline’s shoulders slouched back, as if in contentment. Matt let himself relax into the familiar nighttime sounds. Crickets. Worms burrowing through the earth. A fox baying in the distance. 

Matt traced his way back through the conversation and realized.

“Did you _actually_ grow toes just to scuff them?”

The figure blazed hot like a blush and vanished without a word.

* * *

The ballroom was crowded and sweltering and _noisy._ Not just the conversation-- the nobility’s clothing was louder. The clattering of wide crinolines, the cracking of whalebone, the rustle of petticoats. One woman was even clopping about on chopines, leaning on her servants for support. The wealthiest of the nobility were a little quieter, at least; the woven-in enchantments reduced the sounds of their fabrics, made them float in impossibly light layers.

The smells weren't much better. With his years of training, he'd learned to tolerate most human odors, but not the melting amalgamation in the ballroom today. The nobility's clothing, handkerchiefs, and gloves smelled overwhelmingly of roses and arsenic and body heat. The servants and tradesfolk were more varied, bergamot and violets and sage, along with the smell of their work; wine, horses, ink, oil paint, dyes. And the whole room smelled unpleasantly of black magic, the cloying, inescapable scent of corruption. More than one of these nobles had made a pact with a demon for the power they held.

Claire alone smelled reassuringly familiar-- carbolic acid and blood and the public baths. She was tucked over in the corner, physician’s bag on her lap. Ready to intervene if the crowd overwhelmed someone to unconsciousness. He lifted his hand in a surreptitious wave, and the muscles of her face vibrated into a smile.

The King’s smiles were more occasional and less full-hearted. He sat upon his throne, speaking an occasional soft, gruff word to the few who had the temerity to approach him. The only one he greeted with any affection was Duke Wesley, and there was something _wrong_ with the man. He was completely, unnervingly expressionless and unreadable, inside and out.

Most of the tradesfolk, milling around the edges of the party or, in the case of the servants, near their nobles, weren‘t smiling either. “Not sure why I’m here,” one of them muttered, a man who smelled of ink and paper. “This isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“Speak for yourself,” laughed one who smelled of paints. “These crowds are a dream for impressionism-- the swirls of color and movement, the way the light shifts as people dance. I have so much to work with.”

“Good for you,” the man said. “But I’d rather be home with my wife.”

“She’s not doing better, then?” It was pleasantly delivered, it ought to be sympathetic, but there wasn't much feeling behind it, and the woman's heart was almost gleeful. If she wasn’t the assassin, she was at least lacking in compassion.

He was about to turn to approach them when someone stepped up to him. “Nice to see someone else who hated the theme.” The voice had a richness, a lilt to it that was unfamiliar and that he liked immediately. But it also had an edge that cut through the noise of the crowd, and he liked that even more.

Her clothing was subtly different from that of the others. Her corset was molded less tightly to her torso, and when she moved, a piece of its boning made a muffled ring rather than faint cracking. Metal, not whalebone. And it was… _unusual_ for an unaccompanied woman to approach someone at a ball, yet no one was chiding her for it.

“I considered dressing to blend in,” he said with a grin. “But I couldn’t get a crinoline tailored to fit me in time.”

“A shame,” she said. “It’d be a good look on you.” It was the opposite of the servant’s comment from earlier-- it ought to be a flippant tease, but her heartbeat was sincere and a little wicked. “I’m Elektra.”

“You can call me the Man in the Mask.”

She cocked her head. “You’re not as mysterious as you think you are.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“You have no servants and no coronet, but your accent’s local. You’re not nobility-- not that anyone could make that mistake after seeing your hands. You waved at the woman with the physician’s bag. Probably she invited you here. That cloth over your eyes is far too substantial to see through, but you haven’t tripped and caught fire yet. Which either means you’re a prodigy or you’re used to not being able to see.”

It was impressive, and a little exhilarating. “Can’t it be both?”

“We’ll see what kind of prodigious talent you have. Come have a drink with me.”

People in the crowd murmured as she passed, and he wondered who, exactly, he was escorting. They made their way to the refreshment room, where two fountains had been magicked to endlessly pour drinks for guests, one sloe gin and one marsala wine, a frivolity no ball he’d ever been to had been luxurious enough to afford. Princess Karen was already there, dipping her own glass into the gin fountain. When she saw the two of them, her heart sped, and her nostrils flared in distaste. “Thank you for coming,” she said, quickly, politely, and fled. The rushed heartbeat was unsurprising, considering the assassination attempts-- he wouldn’t want to be near two strangers and their servants either. This had to be a terrible night for her.

The distaste, that was a little surprising, but, even having met Elektra ten minutes ago, he got the sense she rubbed people the wrong way. 

He kept tracking the Princess's heartbeat-- if it spiked, he could run to intercept her.

“Sloe gin, please,” Elektra said to one of her servants, then turned back to Matt. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” she said, and waited until he’d taken a sip to add, “Is it the assassin?”

He didn’t choke on the drink, didn’t even let his surprise show on his face, but her heart rate ticked up anyway. “Thought so. It's not you, is it?” There was a dangerous note to her voice. “I'd hate to cut our evening short so quickly.”

“If I were the assassin,” he said levelly, “you wouldn't have had a chance to make nice with me at a party.”

She laughed. “I like you. Good, then you can help me figure it out. If it weren’t his own daughter, I’d say it’s the kind of thing the King would orchestrate.” She nodded in the King’s general direction through the refreshment room door, and he nodded back. The _King_ acknowledged her from a full room away.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Irrelevant,” she said dismissively. “At the very least, he’s intriguingly obstinate about the assassin not being a problem. But I can't think of any reason for him to want her dead.”

He still couldn’t decide whether to one-up her, cooperate, or pretend to cooperate. “She's probably made some enemies,” he hazarded. “The Duke with the orphanage, for one.”

“Perhaps,” she said. She finished her gin and nodded, and they made their way back to the ballroom.

“...increasing the tax rate in Crete,” said a man beside them, drawing Matt’s attention. “Fill our grain stores.”

“Well-considered, Prince Sultan,” a hanger-on said obsequiously.

Just last month, a Cretan had come into Matt’s shop during his travels. He'd barely had the coin for a resoling-- but Matt had entirely repaired his shoes and waived the fee (to Stick's rage) once he'd found the reason for his visit. He needed boots that could stand up to heavy mud, he said, heart beating truth-- the croplands were flooded, the grain rotting before it could be harvested, people in the village taking sick while they tried to salvage it. The Cretans barely had enough to feed themselves with the tax what it was this year. If they had to give more, people would die.

He couldn’t let that happen without trying to help. But if this man had the power to change the tax rate with a wave of his hand, he wasn’t going to listen to messages about justice.

“Pardon me,” he said politely to Elektra, and stepped up to the circle of men. “You’ll foment a rebellion with those tax rates,” he said measuredly, and the people around the man silenced. All turned to him at once. 

The Prince Sultan shrugged indifferently. “They’re always rebelling over something or other,” he said. “If our coffers aren’t full, we can’t build roads, or storehouses, or hospitals, or maintain our armies.”

Matt might have dropped it there, except that the Prince Sultan wasn't as indifferent as he sounded. His heart was beating the speed of interest-- of someone unused to people sharing their real opinions, but unusually, of someone enjoying the opportunity to hear them.

“Even if they’re constantly rebelling, nothing recruits rebels like the feeling of imminent starvation. And if you tax a staple crop this high, they’ll switch to a different one. There’ll be even less for your storehouses.”

“I’ll consider it,” the Prince Sultan said, a thoughtful tone to his voice. “What did you say your name was?”

He stepped back and grinned cockily, expression carefully out-of-place on the face of the village cobbler. “The Man in the Mask,” he said, and threaded his way back through the crowd towards the exit, past Elektra, before the Prince Sultan had a chance to respond. He'd made a blunder here, and the worst thing he could do was stay around long enough to get recognized.

Elektra followed close behind him anyway while he fled down the steps. “Well, that certainly got their attention,” she said, sounding unimpressed. “But I should thank you. Their territory borders ours: a real rebellion would be costly. If you come back tomorrow night, come find me. You’ll need someone to watch your back.”

“Who are you?”

“Elektra Natchios, from Greece.” She curtsied and turned back towards the party. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  
  


* * *

Several men tried to tail him from the palace; unfortunately for them, he was experienced at giving far more dangerous men the slip. Once he was sure he'd lost them, couldn’t hear their heartbeats anymore, he wound his way back to his shop and closed the door.

He’d had a rush of orders before the ball, people wanting their shoes stitched up or resoled, but there were only three orders for tomorrow. He took out his stretching pliers, his marking wheels, and began to sew.

He heard the clatter of a walking stick from a few blocks away. The bells on the door jingled, but he didn’t look up. This wasn’t a customer. He didn’t need to impress or charm anyone. 

“Too soft, like always,” Stick said. “Don’t pick the leathers that are gonna feel good. Pick the ones that are gonna _last_.”

“My customers don’t agree,” he said mildly. It wasn’t like he never used the leathers meant for durability, for practicality, but for the inside of evening slippers? Women already crushed their toes into them. They didn’t need more pain and chafing on top of that. 

It was a small part of why his shop had a devoted following among the wealthy, part of why he’d heard about the ball in the first place. Other cobblers were quicker at their work, shoes stretched faster on magical pliers, but the precision of his stitching, the comfort of his materials, were unmistakable and unmatched.

Stick didn’t answer. He never did. “You gonna tell me where you’ve been?” he said instead.

“The ball,” Matt said, voice low and level. “A friend found me a disguise after all.” If Stick’s senses were half as strong as Matt’s, he would have sensed the half-truth. Instead, he just shifted against his walking stick.

“Did you find the assassin?” Stick’s voice was begrudgingly curious and annoyed, probably at having to feign an interest.

“Not yet.”

His posture dropped back into sullen indifference. “Then why the hell are you back here, kid?”

Matt shrugged. “A visiting dignitary liked what I had to say, a little too much. I ducked out.”

Stick shook his head. “Always digging your own grave, Matty,” he said. “One of these days, your half-cocked idealism is gonna lose us the war. Keep your mouth shut next time.”

“When you can fight your war without my help, you can tell me to keep my mouth shut.” he said. “And speaking of, there was a lot of black magic there. Nothing big enough to be the whatever you’re looking for, but enough that you should probably come to the next one.”

“We’ll see, Matty.”

The room was quiet but for the whirr of the lighting that neither of them needed.

“You never said why this was important.” Matt had his own reasons to protect Princess Karen, but he was certain, completely certain, that none of them applied to Stick. “Why do you care about keeping the princess alive?”

Stick stood there, tapping the walking stick on the floor restlessly, and Matt focused his attention back on his work. He hadn’t expected an answer anyway.

“She's part of our faction,” Stick said, and Matt’s attention was finally shocked from the evening slippers. If Stick was giving him real information, something was seriously wrong. “The Hand is making their move. Deposing the princess is just the first step. The war we’ve been preparing for has come to us, kid.”

* * *

He walked briskly out to the tree at dawn the next morning and sat. Tried to still his mind after everything Stick had told him. 

It didn’t work very well. Tumult danced in his mind. The Hand was making their move, the Hand that pulled every string and waved every wand, made bargains with every creature it could and betrayed nearly as many. The ultimate example of why Stick was right about the mission-- humanity _shouldn’t_ have power over magic, should leave it alone. Magic was powerful, dangerous, exploitative; not something to play with frivolously. 

But, ironically, he was going to have to call on it yet again in service of stopping the Hand from gaining even more.

It was a beautiful day, even if it wasn’t the kind he and Foggy preferred most. It was warm, and sunny, and the world was rich with wildlife. Larks, a nesting pair, flew high overhead, higher than ordinary people would be able to see. Their wings were an exhilarating soft rush against the breeze. A dragonfly landed on a nearby blade of grass, flapping its wings lazily.

“You looking for something in particular, buddy, or just here to enjoy the weather?”

“A little of both,” he said. “Hi, Foggy. It’s good to see you.” He quirked up a smile. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Likewise,” Foggy said, brightening with warmth. “Always happy to see a repeat customer. In a manner of speaking.”

“Then you know I have a favor to ask.” Foggy nodded, and he winced. “I’m sorry, Foggy. I really am happy just to see you.”

He was, unexpectedly so. It had been a long time since he’d been around someone sincerely friendly, pleasant, with no agenda behind it.

“But you have work to do,” Foggy said. “I get it.” The outline wavered consideringly. “Another masquerade ball?” He sounded a little put-upon. “How exactly do you expect me to help you this time?”

He wasn’t really sure how to answer that. “I need another costume,” he said. “I wish to go to the festival.” 

“I got that, but why can’t you just rewear the last costume? I know it’s not dirty, it _can’t_ be, and I don’t think you’ve been in enough trouble to destroy it yet.”

“I’m afraid, ah. I made something of an impression.” he said. 

“What kind of impression?” Heat fluttered along the outline’s hip.

He winced. “I had some unfavorable things to say about a Prince Sultan’s tax plan.”

“ _Matt._ ”

“It would have starved the poor!” he protested. “Someone had to say something. Besides, I’d need a new costume anyway. The last costume was out of place with the others,” he said. “They had flowing fabrics, ornate detailing. I was followed on the way out, and it’s lucky that your costume is simple enough to vanish into the shadows.”

“Costume or not, you’re pretty recognizable, buddy.” The tree’s outline heated to a temperature Matt was surprised wasn’t scalding holes in the tree bark. Maybe it was. He hadn’t exactly been checking. “But all right. I can provide the costume. Just tell me… are you really going to be okay going in a second time, Matt? It sounds like you’re in pretty deep now.”

He was talking to a magical tree that could tell when he lied. “I’ll be fine,” he said anyway. “I have to stop The Hand. Whatever it takes.”

He sighed. “Your wish is my command.”

The costume he produced was more comfortable, Matt suspected, than other costumes of its ilk, but it was still more uncomfortable to his touch than the last one. The silks were soft and rich, but the bottom half of the vest was stiff with embroidery. The skirt cascaded in ruffles and loose flaps.

“Peacock feathers,” Foggy said. “The skirt is colored like peacock feathers. The vest is pink with purple embroidery.” He sighed, as if anticipating Matt’s objections. “It’s flashy. You’re not a flashy guy. If you don’t want to be the same dude who showed up last night, if you need something complicated to fit in, this was the best costume I could come up with.” He sounded frustrated. “If I could see what everyone else was wearing, I could make a better guess. I wish I could help more.”

“I appreciate your help, Foggy.”

“You can rewear the trousers, if you want. I don’t think anyone would notice.”

“I’m glad,” Matt said, smiling crookedly. “I’ve never owned anything finer.”

The field was unusually still, just the sounds of buzzing insects and a butterfly alighting on the rim of a flower. He relaxed into the stillness.

“You know,” Foggy said delicately, “If you wished for something else, some information, I could probably help you more.”

Matt felt warm. It wasn’t something Foggy was compelled to say, and it probably skirted the limits of what he was allowed to. It was proof that he believed in the righteousness of what Matt was doing, wanted to help save the princess. “I appreciate the insight,” he said. “I wish to know who at the ball is trying to assassinate Princess Karen.”

Foggy’s outline blinked. “That’s weird,” he said slowly. “I got nothing.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“One of two things,” Foggy said. “Either no one wants to kill the princess, and someone’s lying to you, or the answer has some repercussions the magic thinks you won’t like.”

Neither of those possibilities were great. “I wish for information that can help us track down who’d want to kill the Princess, about whether I can trust Elektra to help stop it, and on who might want to destroy that Prince Sultan’s holdings with a tax plan,” he tried.

Foggy got an answer on that one. Not a clear one, Matt wished he’d asked the questions separately, but an answer. It turned out that the Prince Sultan’s commentary about constant rebellion was true. Crete was a Greek-speaking region, and it longed to leave the Ottoman Empire and reunite with Greece. Sparking a rebellion would be in many people’s interests-- Greek nationalists, Britain’s (since they had far more control over their relations with Greece than their relations with the Ottoman Empire).

“If it’s the pro-Greek faction, an assassination attempt against the princess could turn the King’s attention away from Greece long enough for them to retake the British-controlled territories before he can fortify them,” Foggy said. “My best guess, that’s who you’re looking for. And you can trust Elektra to help.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, buddy. I’d be more specific if I could.”

“I know. Thanks, Foggy.” He considered. “Fogs.”

A flash of heat at the tree spirit’s foot again. “I’ve never had a nickname before,” the tree spirit said, sounding touched. “Thanks yourself.”

He gathered up the fabric into a bundle, careful to wrinkle it as little as possible, and placed it in his lap. He wasn’t ready to go back home yet.

He leaned back against the base of the tree, and Foggy made a quiet sigh. Matt wondered what this felt like to him. “Why did you sign on for granting wishes?” he asked. It’s not something dryads were required to do, or even did commonly: the fact that he’d stumbled across one not only willing to grant his wish, but willing to grant more than one, was nothing short of miraculous.

“I like people.” Foggy’s silhouette flopped into a seated position alongside him, which raised so many more questions for Matt. “Anything that lets me meet more of them is good in my book.” 

“That’s it?”

Foggy chewed on his lip. “Kind of,” he said hesitantly. “If I fulfill the greatest wish of someone’s heart, I grow stronger. Strong enough to leave my tree and travel. That would be nice, too. It’s way easier to help people when you can go to them.” 

Foggy was really something else. He had all this power, and all he really wanted was the opportunity to help more people. And Matt should have objected to the idea, Stick had drilled into him that magic corrupts and softens humanity, but he’d experienced the goodness of Foggy’s magic, the kindness. Nothing like the magic The Hand wanted to control.

“Besides, it can get lonely here,” Foggy continued. “Hardly anyone comes to sit under my tree anymore.”

“I’ll come,” he said. “Just like today, even if I don’t need anything.”

Foggy’s face blurred into what Matt was _certain_ would be a smile. “Thanks, buddy,” he said. “It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

It must really be lonely, Matt thought. Sitting here alone for days or weeks or years, just waiting for someone to come by with a need in his heart.

Maybe all dryads were lonely.

“If you gain so much power by granting the greatest wish of someone’s heart, why are you still here?” he said. “Why not just grant one and go?”

“A few things. First, people need to ask,” Foggy said. “I can’t go granting wishes willy-nilly. It’s built into our powers, but even if it weren’t, I’m not an asshole. People wish for a lot of things, but they don’t always want them to come true.”

He swallowed. It was true. As a child, for a week, he’d wished fervently for his vision back. Then for his father. He wouldn’t want the former, now, and he wouldn’t know what to do with the latter.

“Second, the greatest wishes of people’s hearts are… complicated,” Foggy said. “Some people don’t know what they wish for, and wouldn’t like knowing. Other people have wishes with unexpected consequences. Like you.” He leaned back against something within the tree, another detail that made Matt wildly curious about what life was like for him. “The greatest wish of your heart is to take down The Hand. But if you succeeded right now, King Fisk would be taken down in the power struggle, and Duke Wesley would ascend to the throne of Britain. I don’t know if you’ve met the guy, but he doesn’t love anything but King Fisk and power, and he loves power more. A lot of people you love would die. Are you really willing to risk that?”

He’d encountered the man: he knew how empty he was inside. “No,” he said.

“Exactly. So I’m stuck waiting for a really good wish,” he said. “Something simple, or something so altruistic and well-considered that it can’t hurt anybody.”

“I hope you can find one soon,” Matt said. He wished that he could offer a wish of his own, but nothing he wanted was ever simple.

They sat together for a time, listening to the birds and insects and breeze drifting around them.

“What was it like?” Foggy said quietly. “The ball.”

“You really want _me_ to tell you?” Usually, other people were the ones narrating to him, filling in the gaps. 

“Yeah,” Foggy said. “I’d like to know how you experienced it.”

If Foggy wanted Matt’s descriptions, he wasn’t about to say no. Foggy had been so unnecessarily generous-- the least he could do is give back. 

He settled closer to the tree and began the story-- the noise, the heat, the cacophony of smells. He tried to be mindful of what was unique to his experience, and of what someone who’d never been outside a tree might like to know. Foggy spent the whole time smiling, and it was the first time Matt had felt good, really good, all week.

* * *

He dropped tonight’s token gift for the Princess into the appointed slot and stepped into the ballroom. There were even more people here tonight-- from what he’d overheard, several guests had been delayed on the railways. It was hotter, and noisier, the King and Wesley were even more forbiddingly unapproachable, and the smell of black magic was denser in the air. He could feel a headache developing.

“Hey.” He jumped slightly as a man tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got a question for you.” 

Matt stiffened, but turned to face the man, smiling politely. The man smelled like gunpowder, sadness, and fermented chilies and garlic. His mask was different from the others at the party-- plastered close to his face, but rubbing strangely against the contours of it. It caught on skin where it shouldn’t, and missed places where it should touch skin. It was unnerving, and Matt got the curious, distinct feeling that the man knew that and reveled in it.

“How can I help you?” he said.

“Your chronology sucks. When exactly is this fic set?” the man said. “Crinolines and carriage porches, but you’ve also got chopines and ‘dude’? What is this, a Disney movie?"

His heart beat truth and good humor, and Matt’s own heart rate ratcheted up. If the man was so confused he was unclear about what year it was, his condition could be serious. “Perhaps you should see the physician,” he said delicately. “Over there in the corner.”

“Hey, good plan.” He bent his facial muscles in what Matt was sure was intended to be a leer. “She gets to be everyone else’s love interest. I want a turn.”

He spared Claire a thought of regret and apology before beginning to wade through the din. A familiar heartbeat approached.

“Elektra,” he said politely.

“Man in the Mask. You took my comment on the crinoline quite literally,” she said approvingly. 

“I wanted to make an entrance.” He grinned. “Shall we talk?” 

“Please.” She motioned her servants over, and he recognized one from the other night-- the compassionless woman who loved impressionism. He made note of her heartbeat. He’d make sure it didn’t approach the Princess’s tonight. “A sloe gin for me, a marsala for the gentleman,” Elektra said. 

Oil Paints curtsied and stepped over to the table, and Matt started filling Elektra in.

His mouth nearly closed on the words, more than once, but Foggy had verified that he could trust Elektra with this information. “They’re a group called the Hand,” he said. “The power behind the world’s thrones, the controllers of society’s underbelly. The drug trade. The brothels. The fortune-tellers. If my mentor’s right, they’ve infiltrated the nobility, and we can’t know who to trust.”

He told Elektra about the rebellions along her country’s border as they walked back to the refreshment room, suppressing a bit of wistfulness at the thought of Foggy. He preferred to protect people through the sharpness of battle or the intensity of unraveling a mystery, not this crush of people. If Foggy were here, he could make the noise less insistent. “He thinks it’s a pro-Greece faction of the nobility that’s responsible.”

“I’m not sure I believe there’s a pro-Greece faction here,” she said dryly. “But I believe someone would try to strip away the King’s territory and pin the blame on my country. He’s not a man to antagonize on your own behalf. Don’t look now,” she said conversationally, “but there are two men staring at us.”

He knew exactly which men she was talking about. They were unnerving, in some kind of suspended animation-- he could sense them when they moved, but their heartbeats were still and silent. But he wasn’t about to divulge all his secrets to Elektra. “That can’t be unusual,” he said. “Everyone here has been looking for your attention.” There were a lot of raised pulses as she walked by.

“It’s because of my grace and beauty,” she said breezily, and he chuckled. “And I’m something of a patron of the arts. You’ve met a few of my servants-- everyone I employ is an artist. A lot of people here are trying to impress me.”

He grinned and wondered, again, who he was talking to. If he thought he’d get an answer, he’d ask. “Is it working?”

“Keep trying. I’m sure you’ll manage it eventually.” She gave him a wry smile. “But you haven’t impressed those men. It looks like they might have seen through your admittedly flashy costume.” She gestured to her servants again. “Another sloe gin.”

“How does she go through this much gin?” one of her servants muttered, the paper-and-ink man from the other day.

“I would too, if I could,” said Oil Paints. “Being polite to the sorts she socializes with is a drinking matter.” Matt suppressed a laugh and turned his focus back to tracking the Princess, making sure her heartbeat was still steady.

“Thank you!” Princess Karen lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But don’t spend too much money for the third night’s gift. They say the gifts are for me, but really, they go to Duke Wesley.” She laughed. “I hope he likes evening slippers. I saw seven pairs in the donation box.” Her heartbeat was a little elevated, but no more than the press of the crowd and the threat of an assassin warranted. She was safe, for now.

He pulled his attention back to their conversation-- there were important things to plan. 

Their discussion continued for almost an hour, so animated and so focused that he barely registered when the drinks arrived. But he did, abruptly, when she brought hers to her lips.

“Elektra, _don’t_ ,” he said, grabbing her hand and forcibly pressing it to the table. “There’s something wrong.” He hadn’t been monitoring Oil Paints as closely as he should, where was she--

That was the moment the first guest collapsed, foaming at the mouth.

Then almost everyone at the ball was screaming and it was _deafening_ , he had to use all of Stick’s training to soldier through it. The only people who kept a cool head were Claire, Elektra, Matt, and, surprisingly, the King.

Claire was the first to unfreeze. She opened the clasp of her bag and unrolled a leather vial holder, rummaged through it efficiently until she’d collected two, along with a Pasteur pipette.

“Bring me one of the people who’s been poisoned,” she said, voice pitched to carry over the crowd noise. “Quickly.”

“Where’s the woman who does your painting?” Matt said harshly.

Elektra understood immediately what he was implying. “Vanessa? No.” Her voice was even, as always, but there was a little shock to it. “She’s been with my household for years-- oh.” Because the King himself had sprung into motion, walking briskly across the room and bending over to lift bodies from the floor, their lips painted with foam and body temperatures dropping. King Fisk was shockingly strong, lifting each of them with one arm and seemingly no effort, the man smelling of ink and the woman smelling of oil paints.

“She’s over there,” Elektra said unnecessarily.

Claire pipetted a drop of liquid under their tongues. “Next.”

The evening became a blur, everyone forming a line, passing patients along it to the physician. The line continued and continued, until Claire reached the bottom of the second vial. “I don’t have any antidote left,” she said, her voice tired. She wasn’t trembling, years of administering physic to patients in crisis and her surreptitiously-acquired surgeon’s training had eliminated any trembles she had left-- but Matt suspected anyone else would be. “But I can give the rest something to ease the damage. Or at least their suffering. Keep ‘em coming.”

By the end of the evening, the casualties were tallied. Two barons, a baroness, and a viscount-- no foreign rulers, none of the truly powerful rulers here, Matt thought bitterly to himself. Whoever had chosen the patients had prioritized them by title.

“Send her to the dungeons,” Princess Karen said, pointing at Claire with a shaky hand. “She’s obviously responsible. No one else here could have made a poison like this, let alone the antidote.”

It was a strange assumption-- given the mass of people, given that even people like him had been able to slip in, there was no way she could know the capabilities of everyone here. 

Claire heartbeat ticked up. “Princess, I would never--”

“I trusted you, Claire,” she said, voice shaking.

Matt focused in on the Princess’s heartbeat for the second time since he’d gotten to the ball.

Everything she was saying was a lie. She _still_ trusted Claire, didn’t believe that Claire was responsible for this.

But with the words, two heartbeats in the audience picked up abnormally. As if following a signal, in tandem, the men from earlier started to make their way through the crowd towards them. One of them put a hand to his belt and withdrew a knife. Seemed like someone was taking advantage of the crowd’s distraction to punish him for last night’s commentary. “Elektra,” he said urgently.

“I see them,” she said calmly. “Let’s go.”

They threaded through the crowd towards the exit, avoiding the men as deftly as they could manage, Matt needed to get away from people who could get hurt. Once they slipped out the service entrance, the heartbeats were trailing behind them, just out of reach.

They broke into a run and the heartbeats pursued them steadily, and--

“Two more men approaching,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “They’re trying to herd us towards the woods. This is--”

“An ambush,” he finished grimly. “You’re a strange kind of noble.”

“I wasn’t born to my position, nor did I marry into it,” she said, not the slightest bit winded. “My adoptive mother was barren, and my adoptive father unwilling to take another wife. My birth mother passed away in childbirth, and my birth father wanted nothing to do with me. It was an informal arrangement, a perfect solution so long as no one knew about it.”

“Then it’s an unusual thing to tell a man who’s a near-stranger.”

They’d reached the edge of the trees now. “We’re not going to be strangers for much longer,” she said. “No one you fight alongside can ever be a stranger.” She tugged at the seam of the strange bone in her corset, retrieving what turned out to be a knife, and cut the waistband of her crinoline with it. The hoops cascaded to the ground, leaving her in bloomers. “I hope your skirt has more mobility than it looks to, Devil of Bamoral Castle.”

He froze. “What?”

“Don’t be stupid, Matthew,” she said under her breath. “And yes, of course I know who you are. You’re the only blind man in the village. Not hard to find, if you know what you’re looking for. I’ll head the first two off, but I can’t take them all on myself.”

No sooner had she gotten the words out that the men were upon them. One of them raised a dagger and muttered a word, and it blazed with magic to his senses. He bowed, mockingly. “Your Royal Highness.”

_What?_

“You,” he said with slow realization. “You’re the princess they’re trying to assassinate. Not our King’s daughter.” That’s why all of Foggy’s intel had focused on Greek territories, why they’d had to stretch it to explain an assassination attempt against Princess Karen. He drew his truncheons from his waistband, lifted them in front of him. “What does the Hand want with you?”

“If we make it out of this alive, I’ll--” And then the first of them charged.

* * *

He’d lost them, finally. Dodged one, hit the other hard enough that he didn’t get back up. From the sounds of it, Elektra had dispatched hers. But one of them had gotten his leg with a knife, cut through skin and boot alike, and he’d barely escaped with his limbs. Now he just had to make it to the tree. Foggy could help him there. Foggy would know what to do.

He’d already lost too much blood. So much blood.

He slumped down the trunk of the tree and Foggy blinked into existence immediately.

“Matt,” he said urgently. “Matt, talk to me.”

He opened his mouth to talk and blood dripped out. He broke into a coughing fit instead, one that reminded him, vividly, of exactly how many ribs he’d broken.

“It wasn’t as discreet a costume as we’d hoped,” he rasped. “Or at least, they figured it out when I met with Elektra. She’s… she’s a princess, did you know that?”

“Shit, Matt.”

“I wish…”

“Just wish for me to help you, Matt, _please._ ” Foggy’s voice sounded frantic. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

The last word he got out before he passed out was:

“Claire.”

* * *

When he regained consciousness, his sides were on fire and it still hurt to breathe. But he was _alive_. 

Foggy was sitting there in the tree, cross-legged again.

“You’re lucky,” he said, voice flat. “Your intentions were clear enough for the magic to call her here, _with_ her kit, to patch you up. She wasn’t too happy.” His arms rippled and wavered, and Matt got the distinct impression he was trying to cross them. “I’m not too happy with you either.”

He groaned and sat up with effort. “You could have healed me yourself,” he said.

“Maybe,” Foggy said, and Matt was right, his arms were fading into place in a crossed position. “But I felt like this would be a better deterrent. What the hell were you _thinking_ , Matt?”

“I had to get Elektra out alive.” He coughed, flinching at the pain in his ribs. “And I have to go back. Someone thought it was a good idea to murder a quarter of the people at a ball, Fogs. They’ve got to be stopped.”

“You can’t keep doing this. You’re burning yourself out.” His voice was choked. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, Matt. You almost did this time. Please don’t ask me to help you do it.”

Which brought him back to the present task. “What time is it? What day is it?” He couldn’t have missed the last day of the ball.

“Matt!”

“I wish to know what time and date it is,” he said, quietly but insistently. He hated to do it, hated everything about this, but there wasn’t time to be nice and polite like Foggy.

For a moment, Matt thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he sighed. “Seven o’clock on the twenty-ninth. You’re really pushing the worthy thing, buddy.” Adrenaline slammed through Matt: he’d missed an hour of the ball already. The Hand could already be making their move.

“I wish to go to the festival,” he said.

The tree’s eyes flared with heat. “Goddamn you, Matt.” His legs blurred, this time, like he wanted to start pacing.

“I’m sorry, Fogs,” he said.

“You’re not sorry enough to stop,” he said sharply. The silence that stretched between them was uncomfortable. Then he sighed. “If you’re going to go, then just wish for me to heal you. I’m not letting you out of my sight with this kind of disadvantage.”

Another unnecessary gift, even after the way Matt had been treating Foggy. Another way Matt was taking advantage of his generosity. “I wish for healing,” he said quietly, and the heaviness of the wounds began to lift.

“Great. Here’s your ticket to the festival.” A bundle of fabric fell into Matt’s lap, and he felt at it. All one piece, woven of a light, unfamiliar fabric, somehow both flexible and hard, but smooth enough not to chafe. “It’ll stop a knife,” Foggy said wearily. “If you need it to, which, I assume, you will.”

He traced it with his fingertips. Smooth lines, no real weak points or vulnerabilities, a sheath along the waist to hold his truncheons, and… his hand stopped, because there were small, hard, conical stubs at the top of the headpiece. Horns.

This was the costume he’d asked for in the first place. The one that Foggy had told him was a bad idea.

A lump rose to his throat. “Why…?”

Foggy sighed. “Discreet isn’t working for you, and this is what you want to look like,” he said. “I just want you to be happy, Matt.” His hand-silhouette was rubbing at his still-heated eyes. Matt hadn’t realized it was possible for a tree to sound so exhausted. “You can keep this one too. Just go, and stay safe.”

And Matt shouldn’t ask for more, not from Foggy, but… “Can you fix the other one?” he said.

“What for?”

It was a gift from Foggy, and that was starting to mean something to him. But he wasn’t sure how to explain that. “I like it,” he said. 

“Okay, Matt,” Foggy said. “Okay.”

* * *

Hardly anyone was at the ball-- it was a miracle that anyone was, after last night’s murders. Mostly the remaining guests were the rich, the powerful, the ones who could afford a hedge-seamstress to enchant protection into their clothing. More than a few of them drew back at the sight of his costume, but none of them had the courage to confront him about it. And none of them ate or drank anything, all night. 

Elektra was there, astonishing after yesterday’s assassination attempt. Not even the Princess, the guest of honor, was in attendance tonight. Last night he would have attributed it to the attempt on her life, on everyone’s life here. Today, he didn’t know what to attribute it to. But even though there were fewer enchanted garments, fewer smells, the stench of black magic was _overwhelming_.

He didn’t have time to examine it. He slipped out the service entrance, stepped surely in the direction of his destination. It was late in the evening, late enough that the guards had left the narrow grate the prisoners were visible through. Luckily for Matt, visibility didn’t matter.

“Claire,” he whispered urgently.

She tilted her head up, and her heart accelerated in recognition. “I didn’t do it,” she said. “You know that, right?”

“I do,” he said. “But I need to know who’s responsible. How did you know what to give them?”

She shrugged. “We were expecting an assassination,” she said. “The King had me prepare a selection of poisons and their antidotes, and I’m a physician. There aren’t many poisons that fast-acting and distinctive.”

“Did anyone have access to the poisons you prepared?”

She shook her head. “Just the King and his family,” she said, and it confirmed what he’d been thinking. What he hadn’t wanted to think. “Get me out of this, Matt.”

“I will.”

He scanned around him for heartbeats-- no one was close enough to see him. Good. He had another stop to make.

* * *

The Princess didn’t seem surprised when he landed by her window, but she did seem ready for a fight. She was holding a small pistol, but shakily, like she hadn’t had to use it for a long time, if ever.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she said. “Could’ve showed up earlier.” Her voice was a little bitter. “Taken out Princess Elektra for me. Four more people would be alive if you had.”

“Why did you do it, Princess?” he said softly. “I know what you do at court. You want to save lives, not end them.”

“She killed my brother, Devil.” Her voice was resigned, and her heartbeat was true. He straightened, startled. “Killed him personally. He was a bastard and needed to make a living, and he was recruited by a group called The Hand. All he did was keep watch over their shipments, and she killed him in cold blood.” She folded her arms. “I know what you do, Devil. You stop killers, criminals, people who make the world worse. I had to do the same. Couldn’t let her kill someone else.”

“I’ve never killed anyone to stop them,” he said. “I didn’t think you would either.”

She laughs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Devil. But none of the others were supposed to die, just the killer. There was supposed to be enough antidote for everyone.” Her voice went soft, and she sunk back onto her bed. “None of this was supposed to happen.”

“It did,” he said grimly. “And you’re going to have to live with that. Why did you pin the blame on Claire?”

“I _had_ to,” she said urgently. “It wasn’t her fault, but not saving everyone, she made enemies of everyone whose family died. Enemies who’ll want to see her punished. This way the punishment is humane, non-lethal.”

“Let her out,” he said. “Exonerate her. You owe her that much.”

She nodded, and the room went silent.

“What are you going to do with me, Devil?” she said finally. Her voice was resigned, but her heart was terrified, aching, miserable. She _wanted_ him to take her down. Felt like she deserved it.

“Are you going to try to kill her again?” he said. “To kill anyone?”

She considered for a long time, longer than he was comfortable with. “I don’t think I could,” she said. “Not knowing how it feels.” It wasn’t a no, exactly, but she _did_ believe it.

He exhaled. “Then I think having to live with what you’ve done is enough punishment.” It was a compromise he’d have to live with. The poor, the downtrodden, they were the ones who needed the most protection, and in the court, Princess Karen was their only ally. “But I _will_ return for you if you hurt anyone again.”

All of the tension ran out of her. “I understand.”

* * *

There were even fewer guests when he stepped back into the castle, but the black magic hung heavy and oppressive over the whole building.

He smelled the air, tried to focus on the origin. The scent was strong enough, and there were few enough false leads now, that he could follow it-- up through the kitchens, up the stairs, and to a box behind a locked storage room, door too heavy for him to move unaided.

He could smell its contents unaided, though, not just the magic emanating from them. They smelled like the ball. Like roses and bergamot and violets and sweat and like… like the distinctive leather of his shoes, he realized with a sinking horror. A box full of sentimental tokens, gifts for the princess… but meant for Duke Wesley, a man who was empty, an emptiness that went beyond that of a human being.

A box full of gifts he, and everyone who'd attended at the ball any of the nights, had offered up willingly to a demon.

* * *

He went straight to the ballroom, to Elektra, because if there were a demon involved with this, one who’d absorbed the power of hundreds and hundreds of offerings, Matt would need more than a costume that could stop knives.

Went to Elektra and stopped short, because she wasn’t alone. She was talking to Stick, who hadn’t even bothered to dress appropriately for the ball, and whose posture was… not relaxed, exactly, Stick’s posture was never relaxed, but unthreatened. Stick was talking to her like she was familiar.

Irritated realization rose, and he forced it back down. There’d be time for it later. He stepped close to them. “I found the source of the black magic,” he said urgently. “A collection of tokens upstairs. But it’s locked, the door’s solid, and I can’t reach it.”

Elektra smirked. “I can,” she said, and brandished a set of keys.

“How did you--”

“Like you said, Matthew. Everyone’s looking for my attention.” The smirk didn’t leave her face. “And the keymaster does actually have some talents. He’ll make an excellent opera singer.” 

“First we got to take down whoever was threatening Elektra,” Stick said. “Then we handle the magic.”

He wasn’t going to let Stick kill the Princess. “It can’t wait. If the demon gets access to all those offerings, if he absorbs their power, he’ll be near-impossible to stop. And I took care of the assassin,” he said grimly.

Stick twisted up his lip skeptically. “I know what taking care of means to you.” But mercifully, for once, he didn’t pursue it. “Lead the way. We can handle it.”

They started up the stairs. “You knew her,” he muttered, quietly enough that Stick could hear him, not loudly enough that Elektra could. “You knew who was really at risk. You knew you were sending me on a wild goose chase and never bothered to correct me. Why?”

“Couldn’t let you get in the way of her mission,” Stick said gruffly. “That black magic you smelled is what we were looking for-- The Hand’ll use it to make the deadliest weapon imaginable. The Black Sky. Elektra’s here to stop it.”

“Why her? Who is she, Stick?”

“You can smell black magic,” Stick said, “and fight off weaker magic users with brute force. She can block magic. Kill it completely. She’s the best warrior we’ve got.”

They'd arrived at the storeroom the magic was emanating from. Without even jingling the keys, Elektra found the one to fit the lock. The door creaked noisily as it opened, and they froze, but there were no heartbeats nearby.

They closed the door behind them. “What do you need to destroy this, Elektra?” Three heartbeats threaded up the stairs and towards the storage room. They didn’t have much time.

“I need time,” she said, which was the _worst_ possible answer. “Especially for this much.” She closed her eyes and dropped to the floor, settling into a meditative stance, and… and something grew in her. A nothingness, a nullity, absorbing the black magic but not cancelling it. 

“Stop, Elektra,” he said as the nothingness swelled. “You’re not destroying it. It’s corrupting you.”

There was a clatter outside his door, and a rattling knock. The heartbeats had arrived. 

“Keep working, Elektra,” Stick said, too quiet to be audible to the people outside.

There was a sound of metal against metal, and the door fell inward from the hinges.

Outside, Fisk’s Court Mage, Gao, stood in a sunken fighting stance. Duke Wesley stood with his unnerving expressionlessness, his hand on a pistol-- and all of the magic surrounding the keepsakes flowed towards him, coalesced under his skin.

They were too late. The Hand had the power they wanted.

King Fisk stood there, smelling of blood and leather and armor. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Might I propose we take this outside? I’d hate to disturb the other guests. Oh, and Mr. Murdock,” he said directly to Matt, and Matt’s heart sank. “Thank you for helping us find you, but I believe I should return this to you.”

He held up a cut-up, bloodied creation of familiar leather. The boot Matt had lost during the fight.

* * *

They followed as he marched them down the steps, down the path, stopping just inside the woods. Stick hadn’t wanted to, Matt could tell, but as always, Stick needed Matt’s help to fight his battles, and Matt wasn’t going to let innocents get caught in the crossfire.

“So you’re in league with the Hand,” Elektra said, sounding bored rather than disgusted. 

“To a point,” King Fisk said. “Their work is… necessary. Magic’s utility as a tool depends on control. But if you’re asking if they’re why I’m here, no-- in this case, our interests are merely aligned. It’s more of a professional matter. I have a proposal for you, Ms. Natchios.”

“Princess,” she said darkly.

He shrugged. “Relinquish the throne to someone more… sympathetic, and we can give you a great deal in exchange.”

“Sympathetic to what? The drug trade? Magic in the hands of the powerful?”

“To Britain,” he said. “We need a bulwark against the Ottoman Empire. Greece could be that bulwark. In exchange, you’d have fewer rules to follow. Fewer of the boring, tedious parts of ruling. No one whispering about what happened to your crinolines after you left parties with strange men. No one moralizing at you about killing. And we’d train you.”

“Train me?” She laughed. “In what?”

“Magic.”

No one but Matt could have heard it, but Stick sucked in a breath.

“You know something’s missing from you,” King Fisk continued, and Elektra’s heart skipped at that. “You’ve never been told about your potential. With Gao’s training and the magic power Duke Wesley collected during the ball, you could be the greatest dark magician ever to live. Our Black Sky.” His voice was almost reverent.

She glanced over to Stick. “Is that why you chose me for your fight?”

Stick didn’t reply. Didn’t even turn his head to acknowledge her. Her heart rate increased still further.

She turned back to Fisk, squaring her body to his. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you can expect more attempts like these, Ms. Natchios,” he said gently. “More expensive rebellions along your borders. More unrest within your lands.”

Elektra’s heartbeat was speeding. She was considering this, and Matt felt his weight shift onto the balls of his feet. “Before we seal an offer like that, we need to work through the details,” she said reluctantly. “I won’t strike a bargain unconsidered.”

“Of course,” King Fisk said blandly. 

“Neither of them are to be harmed.” She gestured at Matt and Stick.

“Done.” Duke Wesley’s skin brightened, each step towards a bargain soaking into his skin.

“Greece stays a sovereign nation, at least in name. It’s not a territory.”

“Also acceptable. And we’ll provide you everything you need. Food, drink, appropriate clothing, servants.”

“Absolutely not,” she said immediately. “My servants are artists. I’m not going to trade them away to someone who’d starve their talents.”

“Then I’ll take them on,” he said, and his heart began to beat faster. “Give them a new life. We can start with the ones you brought with you-- the writer and your painter, Ms. Marianna.”

Elektra paused.

“I don’t believe you had the opportunity to learn their names,” she said slowly. “But you were awfully quick to get them an antidote the other day-- you let a viscount die for want of her dose.” She tucked her hair behind an ear and laughed disbelievingly. Shook her head. “That’s what all this is about? You want to bed my portrait artist, so you’re deposing my entire kingdom?”

“I want to marry her,” King Fisk growled, for the first time losing some of his awkward affability. 

“The bargain is off,” she said, dropping into a fighting stance. “I can’t sacrifice my kingdom for something so utterly sordid and stupid. Leave us.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, and the three of them dropped into their own fighting stances.

* * *

The fight took them deeper and deeper into the woods. The team was relentless-- Duke Wesley wearing them down with accuracy, Mage Gao and her waves of energy constantly giving them something to dodge, pushing them into Fisk, whose armored clothing and deadly mass made hitting him a waste. 

It was a fight for their lives. For everyone’s lives. And they were losing. Not yet, not obviously, but they hadn’t been able to make any headway, and they were starting to make foolish mistakes. Elektra’s magic blocking was holding for now, but he wasn’t sure how much longer it would be until it collapsed and Duke Wesley and Mage Gao overtook them.

He wished, fervently, that he could find an opening, any opening, just for a moment. Just to take them down, he didn’t want anyone to _die_ , no matter what Elektra and Stick wanted.

No sooner did he have the thought when everyone but him cried out, staggered back-- Elektra, Stick, and their opponents. He didn’t understand, couldn’t, but it was an opening. He pulled King Fisk into a headlock, but he didn’t need to-- whatever was happening hadn’t stopped. The King gasped at the contact and then sank immobile to the ground; lost consciousness, followed shortly by the rest of them.

The only one besides Matt who managed to stay this side of conscious was Stick, and even he had sunk to his knees, like he was caught in the rapids before a waterfall and he was fighting to keep from falling to his death.

Eventually, the onslaught must have ended, because Stick straightened slowly, gingerly.

“What the hell was that?” Matt said.

Stick shrugged. “An opportunity,” he said, and unsheathed his sword.

Matt stepped between him and the downed men, drew his truncheons. “No. This isn’t justice, Stick. They’re not even conscious.”

“Everything’s half-measures with you,” Stick said disgustedly, and raised his own sword. “You know the kind of man Fisk is.”

“If King Fisk got taken down right now, Duke Wesley would inherit the throne. Fisk is a monster; Wesley would destroy the whole kingdom.”

“Better the kingdom than the world,” Stick said grimly, lifting onto the balls of his feet. “They’ll find another Black Sky, and with one under their command, they’ll be a force no army can take down. We’ll never have another opportunity like this, Matthew. You know that.” He tried to step around Matt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

Neither of them whirled to face it, because neither of them needed to. They could clearly sense the outline behind them, burning with a fierce heat. 

“He didn’t wish for their deaths,” Foggy said, “and believe me, I’m fully capable of granting him whatever I choose to. Unless you want more of what I just gave you, put that sword away.”

Stick turned to face the tree, sword still lifted.

Foggy actually laughed. “Please. Try it, Stick. Find out what happens.”

After a long, tense moment, Stick settled his weight back onto his heels. Resheathed his sword. “What exactly do you propose we do instead?” he said.

“Discredit them," Foggy said. "Let Princess Natchios return to her home country. Let this start a diplomatic incident, let heads of state and their armies decide what happens.” Vines twirled around Fisk, around Gao and Wesley, wrapping them securely, inescapably. “Deposit them on the carriage porch and start rumors about what they could have done to merit that treatment. And before you ask, no, they can’t use their powers when I’ve got them tied up like this. There are so many things you could do, and will do, to take them down without killing them.”

Stick tapped his walking stick. “Why are you protecting him?”

“I’ve granted a lot of wishes over the centuries,” Foggy said. “Never for anyone worthier.“ Matt couldn’t read his heart, couldn’t tell truth or falsehood. But Foggy sounded sincere. Matt wanted him to be sincere, wanted him to have that kind of faith in him.

Stick shook his head-- in disgust, in disappointment, Matt wasn't sure-- and walked away. 

Matt walked over to the tree and hugged it. It scraped and chafed against his arms and he didn’t care, just wanted to feel the sturdy, comforting warmth of Foggy against him.

“You said people needed to ask before you granted their wishes,” Matt said hoarsely. 

“Yeah, well, you wished for it in your heart. Close enough.” But Matt had spent enough time around Foggy, knew him well enough, to know that wasn’t the entire truth.

“Was it really?” he said.

Foggy crumpled in a disturbingly literal way-- his outline compacted, then disintegrated into motes of heat that fell into a heap along a flat place in the bark. They began to fade. “You were going to die, Matt,” he said, voice breaking. “I don't care if you hate me, or if I get trapped in this tree forever. I wasn't going to let that happen.”

“I could never hate you,” he said. “You did me a kindness, Fogs.” He’d been right-- Foggy had broken the rules, and now something was wrong with the magic. He raced through what he knew-- he had to be worthy, which he wasn’t sure he was anymore, but... “I wish for you to have done exactly what you did, when you did,” he enunciated clearly, hoping desperately retroactive wishes would count. “Please grant me that, Foggy.”

The motes flared hotter than they ever had, hot enough that Matt was surprised the ground itself didn’t catch fire. Then they began to reform into the familiar shapes, with even more slowness than usual. Arms, legs, face. But there was something more vivid about the shape of his eyes, something hotter. 

His hand flickered, his eyes. “I’m so damn grateful for that stupid mote of dust that fell in your eye, Matt,” he said, voice shaking.

“Me too,” he said softly, and he stayed where he was, pressed awkwardly against the bark of the tree. 

The night was stiller than usual-- quiet enough that he could hear the flow of the closest river, some few kilometers from where they stood, and Foggy was still so warm against him.

“Sorry for hurting your friends,” Foggy said, guilt trickling through his voice. “It was the only way to make sure no one died.”

“Then I’m glad you did it,” Matt said. And then he added, because he’d been wanting to know: “What did you do to them, Fogs? Why did they collapse like that?”

“Showed them what it’s like to live with your heightened senses,” Foggy said grimly, flickering the warmth of his outline against Matt’s hand. “Even a demon can’t stand up to that. Serves them all right.”

There was a vindictive anger in Foggy’s voice that Matt wasn’t used to, especially not on his behalf. He swallowed another lump. “Can you give the magic back that Duke Wesley took?” he said. “Make things right?” He didn’t want to ask anything more, not after everything, but The Hand couldn’t keep the power they’d stolen.

The tree sighed. “Make a wish, Matt.”

“I wish…” he considered carefully. “I wish to return the stolen magic to where it came from, but uncorrupted. Clean.” He wouldn’t have believed that magic like that existed, four days ago. Foggy taught him better.

Foggy’s mouth shimmered, the edges of a smile lifting. “As you wish.”

* * *

Claire had been freed from the dungeon, just as Karen had promised; now, rather than being a physician the court occasionally called upon, she was the official court physician. Matt doubted he’d be able to see her much in the near future, but he was glad for it. She deserved a reward for all she’d done for the kingdom, all she’d gone through to save it.

And it was time for Elektra to leave. She stood by the carriage now, all of her valises packed in. 

“Come with me,” she said. “Fight the Hand. There’s a place for you among my guard. In my household.” He wasn’t sure, but from the tone of her voice, he thought she was offering a lot more than just a post.

He wasn’t interested. “Thank you,” he said politely. “But I’m done fighting other people’s wars.”

* * *

“Done, huh,” Stick said, when Matt said the same to him. “I warned you softness was death.” His voice wasn’t even disgusted. It was disappointed, dull. “You gonna abandon our cause? For that _soft_ thing in the tree?”

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “I think I am. Have a good life, Stick.”

The softness was the point. All his life, he’d been trained in sharpness, in violence he chafed against even as he used it as a tool. There’d only been one person who’d wanted something soft for him. Who’d recognized the toll the roughness took against his heart, against his skin, well enough to inflict it on others to save him. Who'd been soft with kindness as the people around him hardened their hearts.

Foggy should get to have soft things too-- to emerge from his world of rough tree bark into a new one, full of gentle breezes and silky tree blossoms. He never asked for anything in return, and Matt wanted him to have everything.

Matt had one last wish to make. One gift to give Foggy back. He just needed a plan.

* * *

“Fogs.”

The tree stayed silent and cold, just like it had the previous five times he’d called for Foggy.

“Look, I know I might not be worthy anymore, not after everything I’ve asked of you, but Fogs, this is important to me. Please, _please_ come out.”

“It was never about your worthiness, dude.” Foggy’s voice was emerging from the tree, but the warm, friendly lines of his presence weren't there. “I’m just… I’m tired, Matt.”

“Of what?”

His face faded in, just a little. “Enabling your self-destruction, mostly,” he said with a frown. Matt couldn’t read his heartbeat, so he couldn’t be sure it was a lie, but it felt, at best, like a half-truth. “And then saving you from certain doom. You’re a good guy, I care about you, and I don’t want to be responsible for your death.”

“Then let me make a bargain,” he said. “Just grant me one more wish and I’m done asking you for anything. I care about you too, Fogs,” he said softly, “and I want to stop taking from you. I wouldn’t even ask this of you, but you’re the only one who can help me.”

“One more wish, and you’ll leave me alone?” His voice was unreadable.

“I’d rather not,” Matt said honestly. “I like spending time with you. But if that’s what you’d like, I’ll leave you alone.” He dug his nails into his palm. 

“You’ve got a deal, Matt.” 

The lines of his form were all present now, just barely. “Could you come out a little further, please?” Matt whispered. “It’s… it’s personal, and I’d rather have you completely present for it.”

The lines brightened. “What do you want?”

“I want you,” he said, and for a moment, couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. “I want you to know the greatest wish of my heart. Just know it. That’s my wish. I consent to you fulfilling it, too, if you can accept its consequences. You deserve to have your dreams come true.”

Foggy made a noise like a dry swallow. “Are you sure, Matt? Like I said, it might not be pretty. You might not like what needs to happen to get your greatest wish.”

Matt gave a half-smile. “I’m more than okay with what needs to happen to get there.”

He stepped forward and pressed his hand to the bark of the tree where the outline of Foggy’s face sat. “You told me you were given the information you needed to grant wishes,” he said. “Whatever you consult, however you know it, please check it now.”

Foggy dimmed in thought, hands swirling together in a pensive gesture. Matt focused his attention on it, entranced. He could never get tired of the shapes Foggy made.

“Oh. Oh _wow._ ” He flared under Matt’s hand with a fiery, vivid heat-- the most beautiful thing Matt had ever encountered. “Really, Matt?”

“Really,” he said, with everything in his heart.

Just like everything with Foggy, it happened so achingly slowly he wasn’t sure it was going to happen at all. The heat of the tree began to take shape under Matt’s hand, pitted concavities and rough protrusions of bark smoothing and softening into something more human. He took a step back, because Foggy was finally getting what he’d always wanted, the freedom to move around, and the last thing he wanted was to trap him in place.

In the end, a warm, scintillating silhouette stood beside the tree, running its hands along the bark.

“Huh. So that’s what it feels like from the outside,” he said. “I’d always wondered.”

Even though he could never feel it when Foggy was in the tree, now he knew for sure: Foggy had a heart, beating fast and exhilarated and wild.

“Hi, Foggy,” he said stupidly. “How are you feeling?”

Foggy pushed off the tree with his hand. Matt had expected him to stumble, his first few steps, but he was sure-footed and decisive as he walked towards Matt. “Good,” he said. “Free.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I. Thanks, Matt,” he said gently, stopping in front of him. “For your wish.”

Matt breathed. He hadn’t been sure it would work, wishing Foggy could feel a fraction of the happiness he’d brought to Matt. But he was glad, so glad, it had.

“Getting that kind of wish to work is tricky,” Foggy said, again like he could read Matt’s thoughts. “You were right to be worried. Want to know how I did it?”

He smiled. “Very much,” he said.

“First, it made me happy just to have proof that you cared that much,” he said. “But second, and this is the kicker: I looked a little deeper, and I found another wish.” His voice was gentle, and a little teasing.

Oh. Oh no. Matt felt his face heating. Foggy wasn’t supposed to see that one.

Foggy brushed a hand, a _real hand_ , against his face. It was soft, maybe even softer than a regular human hand, but hotter, more pervasive somehow. “Let me tell you, Matt.” His voice was reassuringly tinged with happiness. “Nothing’s made me happier today than finding out you wanted me to do this too.”

Foggy’s lips were warm, almost hot. He felt like sunshine, his skin bore the faint scent of pine needles, and when his mouth opened beneath Matt’s, he tasted like everything Matt had ever wanted. He wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer, and the kiss went deeper, hungrier, until Matt’s entire world was heat and pine and sharp joy.

They stayed like that, long enough that Matt lost track of time, but still not long enough. The kiss was softening, gentling, into all of the awe Matt felt at being able to have this.

“There,” Foggy whispered against his lips, like he didn’t really want to break the kiss either. “Wish granted.”

“Mmm. Not so fast,” Matt said, threading a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure all the conditions have been satisfied.” He drew Foggy’s warmth, his sincere kindness, his promise of change, a little closer. “Surely your happiness takes maintenance? Upkeep?”

Foggy’s lips curled upwards against his own. “You’ve got a point,” he said. “Hey, Matt.”

“Yeah?”

Another kiss, this time on his forehead. “Looks like I’m in need of some maintenance. When I go off to help more people, want to come with?”

Stick had raised him here-- it had been the only home he’d known. But it had never felt like his true home, and Foggy was right. In a bigger city, like London or New York, he could help a lot more people. 

Matt smiled. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Matt Murdock canonically thinks Deadpool smells like gunpowder, sriracha, and sadness.](https://comicnewbies.com/2016/06/28/daredevil-describes-what-deadpool-smells-like/)
> 
> Costume #2 is a cameo from [94bottlesofsnapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/94bottlesofsnapple/)’s excellent [Take A Chance On Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920761), with permission.
> 
> “I wish to go to the festival / and the ball” stolen shamelessly from Into The Woods.


End file.
